


And with his bow, he is God

by Ryenan



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:57:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryenan/pseuds/Ryenan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when Clint has his bow in his hand, he is a powerful being, above everything. But once, just once, he broke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And with his bow, he is God

**Author's Note:**

> The quote this work is derived from is from an old puritan sermon that we were looking at in grammar class, analyzing it for rhetorical devices and the like. Someone mentioned the avengers movie, and how hawkeye looked like an angry person in it , and they could relate this quote to him. After a quick laugh, Inspiration struck! so I wrote angry hawkeye. 
> 
> This is pre-Budapest.

He stared down from his perch in the clouds, sharp eyes missing nothing that happened below him on the snowy square. He saw every flash of bright hair against the dark coats and pale snow. He was here to kill, in the name of justice, and with all the wrath of his anger. For he was angry, his fingers pulling taught the bow string on which the golden arrow of burning anger sits. He has made no promise and he has no obligation to loose his arrow into the flesh, the heart, of his target. He will only promise an end if there is no chance of redemption, but his arrow has been sunk deep in flesh many more times than not. He is a God among mortals, he is the God when he sits in his perch and stares down with all the power in the world - all the power notched on a string pulled taught in his fingers. With his bow in hand, he has all the power to end a life or save it.

As he sits in his perch, silent and unmoving, he sees her, a bright flash, a glimmer of an earring, and a strip of leg, thin and tucked into an expensive black boot. So he picks up his bow, and it sits perfectly in his powerful arms, and he notches an arrow with a whisper of holy sound. The tip is sharp and gleaming in the noontime light, the shaft strong and straight and deadly. He whispers to his, bow, calm, as he tracks his target across the square. She is within his sights, and will be dead and gone in but a second. But the God will not do it, because as she turns, he sees her face. She is so young, so visibly scared, that he gasps and lets the arrow fall into the snow at his feet. Whomever this girl is, she has broken the mask of God, and he is no longer himself. He will save this shot for another day, for the day he hates this beautiful being and can not see a path of redemption for her. But with all the hope he can muster, he hopes and prays to a god higher than him that this will never happen.

Following her with his eyes, never letting her out of his sight, his bow clicks into his case, the arrows stashed, all slung over his shoulder as he rushes down the stairs. He will track her for days, months, years, if he must, because he has fallen in love. Fallen so in love with this crimson ghost. She does not exist, in any system or in any file, but this God knows of her and holds her fiery curls in the most holy of regards. He loves her, his mark, his target, his job, and he will not sink an arrow into the beautiful pale flesh. The God is tucked away in his bow case, the real man, nearly as strong, twice as in love, is out for now.

So out he goes, following her through the snow and the coats of Russia, the cold following at his heels. He will save her, no matter what, from the Devils of the world.

From the Devil of circumstance,  
The Devil of life,  
The Devil of death and danger and the things they were trained to do. 

For he may be an angry god, but to repent is true salvation, so he shall save her, must save her, has absolutely no choice but to save her.

For if he can not save her, what is he worth, even with all his power, for a god who can not save a single woman is not a god at all.

The bow of God’s wrath is bent, the arrow made ready on the string, and justice bends the arrow art your heart, and strains the bow, and it is nothing but the mere pleasure of god, and that of an angry god, without any promise or obligation at all that keeps the arrow one moment from being made drunk with your blood.  
\- Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God  
\- Jonathan Edwards


End file.
